


Kairos

by MidnightMoonWarrior



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Gen, Slade's head, Well - Freeform, basically just a guess of what's going on in, character inspection, in season one and two, season two so far
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 14:37:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightMoonWarrior/pseuds/MidnightMoonWarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sucking chest wound is nature's way of telling you you've been ambushed. If that's true, then he must be in hell, pulled down by the devil himself. Something's burning. (It can't be him) - Slade Wilson Character Inspection. Focus on Season One with Season Two mentioned in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kairos

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any characters mentioned in this work of fiction.
> 
> Author's Note: Yeah, I have a lot of Slade feelings. What can I say, he's my favorite character. This is really just a character introspection type deal, with no pairings. Anything you see, it's all your interpretation.
> 
> Also: Title is originally Greek for 'the perfect, delicate, crucial moment.'
> 
> Reviews are appreciated, flames will be used to roast marshmallows.
> 
> Enjoy.

The first thing he's told on the subject is that it is a necessity for the average person. On a basic level, it's needed to survive because it's hell of a lot easier to fight off a bear with a village behind you than with your own two fists.

It makes sense, he thinks, because at the same time, what, are you going to have a kid yourself? The whole evolutionary cycle is a bit too dry, too nonviolent for his tastes, but he gets the gist of it. He doesn't need to know a book full of information where he's going, hell, how much attachment can you have for the man next to you? It's not like she's a bloody supermodel or something.

As he quickly learns, that is completely false because trust comes only from attachment and you sure as hell need to know you aren't going to get shot in the back, or stabbed in the same place in the middle of the night.

There are two things they drill in, so tight and so deep that even if he lives to old age he's going to be alone because of it. He's going to be sitting alone in the dark, bogged down with injuries and memories, knowing that he can't reach out because that would mean being compromised.

First, make friends. It's simple, but when surrounded by bastards who feast upon the act of the kill and care for no one other than themselves, not to mention that these are the ones you're supposed to work with to carry the bad guys, it's a bit hard. At least it would be for a normal person and well, he's not normal. No, he's just a ghost sent in to clean up, extract, do whatever needs done. And as a experience man, one who is only defined by a covering of orange and black, he finds it easier to follow the second suggestion he's given by the older men in service.

Forget. It's easy enough to do that, he thinks, it only takes the act of burying himself in the bottom of a glass or between the thighs of the nearest willing whore. He's stupid to think that, but he understands why they tell him to forget.

The man next to him, who ends up working with him because really they were the ones to laugh after beating the crap out of each other in drunken brawl and ask for another round for their mate, is just like the others. Only different thing is that they get along well and years later, the man moves from being a stranger to the godfather of his kid. He doesn't even have to look over his shoulder anymore, not with Billy, because any enemy is going to get a knife to a vital spot.

He's okay with that, with having a friend of sorts in the world of grime and blood that is his profession. The hardest part turns out to be forgetting and not let tears of betrayal loose when that knife that protected his back is sliding into his own shoulder.

X

Forget, he's told. When the man beside you dies, you have to be able to move on. There is no time to mourn the dead, the lifeless ghosts that crumple before you with a bullet to the brain. If the heart takes over and the body stops, then you are sure to follow.

This is what they tell him; create trust, enjoy those around you because you're going to need them in order to survive. Just, just don't be surprised when it falls apart and that person you thought was your mate is dead.

Or worse.

In the haze of pain that comes after they crash, after he is left alone, he sometimes comes into consciousness just enough. Just a slight view of the tent he's strung up in and movement just out of the corner of his eye. He's in a camp of some kind, that much is for sure. Pity he didn't get more of a few before...

Gravity and exhaustion cause his head to slump forward, uncaring of what position he's in; a hand sometimes hold his chin up, just to get a look at him. Most times he's too out of it to notice because while they stave off the inevitable infections, it doesn't mean that he's not on the brink of them. The hand isn't gentle per say, but there isn't a blade digging into him so it's a plus.

Someone holds water to his lips, slowly pours it through cracked skin and he likes to imagine that he's at a bar, wondering how many drinks Billy is going to give him before the spin part of a drunken version of pin the tail on the kangaroo. It's stupid of him, but at least no one smacks the faint smile off his face.

X

Escape is bittersweet because it's perfectly done.

Textbook even, if he may say so himself. It's so perfect that part of him wishes that it had gone wrong, because then it would've been realistic then. He didn't alert the whole bloody camp, his swords were strapped to his back, and he didn't have to face the specter of his past. In the shape he's in, the last one is a godsent, as is the fact that most of the supplies from the plane are still intact and just there.

Not everyone has given up on him, betrayed him, and damn all if he isn't overjoyed to find that the grand idea of packing booze in the military version of bubble wrap wasn't such a stupid idea after all.

The first few days are just what he needs, because apparently no one thought it relevant to thoroughly checked through the wreckage. There are patrols sure, but nothing hiding in the trees doesn't solve. It's just pure isolation and in truth, it fully sinks in why those two things about attachment are so important.

The hardest thing is still to forget because part of him is just waiting for a familiar mask to turn the corner and hell, he's not even sure he would be ready to stab the man even if swords were drawn. Because he remembers the countless nights of drinking, of dinners with the misses, the training in which they would knock each other on their asses before laughing and going at it again; not to mention the time when they thought it brilliant to put a black headed python in a fellow mate's bed. Could've heard the screaming top side, they'd said while laughing hysterically. The snake wasn't even poisonous, not that rolling over to a nine foot one wouldn't make any man jump...

He remembered all of it and he was just meant to forget it all, pretend that the bastard around the island wasn't his former mate? He knew Billy was dead, gone and why he was sitting on the shell of a crashed plane.

He'd followed step one to the tee, but step two? Part of him felt like he needed more training. Or a clone. As it turned out, he found, the only feasible way off the island was to take an airstrip guarded by some amount of men that would be no problem. Yet there was one small problem in his way that he had no way of solving.

There was a shortage of solutions because the only person he could trust to do it had already stabbed him in the back. And even worse, he couldn't forget that at one point he would've of been capable to escape, that he wasn't alone.

X

The kid is, in one word, annoying.

He's annoying because of the repetition that turns out to be his train of thought. Yes, the boy has talked to Fyers, met Yao Fei, and nearly been killed by Billy (he hides his grimace best he can when it's mentioned), yet all the kid ever talks about is home.

It's to be expected, as there's a big difference between him and the kid but there get's a point where if he ever hears about some 'Sarah' chick or 'Laurel' again, he's going to throw the kid down a waterfall himself.

The kid - Oliver, his name turns out to be Oliver, ends up under his wing. He has no idea how it happened, but somehow it turns from holding a knife to his throat to training the kid in simple hand to hand. He claims to himself, and aloud, that it's because he needs to take the airstrip and that's the only reason. But frankly, the idea of throwing the kid, who's hair droops when he's sad, to the wolves of Fyer's pack seems harsh even for him.

He's not attached.

He's just making sure that the kid is strong enough to take out one man in the air control tower. That's what he tells himself when he goes hunting for incredibly long periods of time, because while there's plenty of dried meals the kid bitches about them and he really doesn't want to hear it, and brings back meat. That's what he tells himself when he carefully cooks the pork, because the last thing he needs is the kid getting sick, and then lets the kid have the first serving. That's what he tells himself when never quite lets the kid out of his line of sight when they're out together.

He keeps his goal in mind, getting off the island, focused solely on it. Though he has to say, he's amused by the incredible stupidity that is the kid rubbing two sticks together for hours. He's amused to the point where dead-panning his knowledge about wolves uses more of his training that he's willing to admit.

And then there is the sarcasm, the witty "Training girl scouts now Slade?" comments that make him want to laugh if they weren't so goddamn infuriating. Eventually he gets used to them, not that he's ever had a problem responding to the banter that kid presents, but that deeply repressed sense of friend comes out. When that happens, he shoves it right back down because he knows that if it comes down to it, he would shoot the kid in the back of his unsuspecting head to get off this island.

X

Maybe it's that thinking that he is so surprised when he leaves the control tower just minutes before the plane is set to touch down, when he nearly strolls into the enemy camp with no plan other than to get the kid.

He listened to the argument, the loyal humanistic part of Oliver that had died in him along with Billy and he had denounced it as stupid. That's because it was, it was ludicrous to go back for one man when you had a chance of escape literally three hours away.

Oliver had gone regardless and he had fumed because why the hell had he put all this work into keep the kid alive when all the kid cared about was his morality? Sure, Yao Fei had gotten the kid away from Fyers, but the kid would have starved five times over if not for him, not to mention the number of times he would have killed himself just by sheer stupidity.

He fumes, knowing that those things shouldn't expect any return, they were just things of the moment and just to forget them because they're in the past. Two and a half hours later and the kid's not back. He knew this would happen and he's just going to be leaving the kid on the island, likely to die.

The kid, who is a pain in the ass in his teenage like angst and pitiful fighting skills. The kid, who smiles even when it's pouring rain because someone (namely him) had had the forethought to dry some of the meat. The kid, who didn't take it personally when he was just about to have his throat slit, yet bitches about the training that is trying to help him survive.

The radio buzzes, announcing the final descent and this is the moment he's waited for. It's been months of waiting and yet he walks away from the tower and from the transportation that was supposed to get him off the bloody island.

He's walking away, he tells himself, to kick the kid's ass and then drag him back to the landing strip. In truth, he knows there is no chance in hell of them making it back in time, but he justifies his steps away from freedom and his denial about attachment.

He's not attached, he's just concerned.

Concerned that his good - no, excellent training skills will go to waste if the kid dies. Yes, that's it.

That's it, he tells himself as he blows the sense of calm that is the enemy camp to hell and willingly faces his former friend in combat. At this point, he's managed to forget some of it, but the mask makes it easier to kill the man. That way, he doesn't have to see the curl of the lip that would come out during a laugh or the way the eyes would crinkle when focused. He doesn't have to see the man focused on killing him.

He's not even sure what he said in the man's ear, because even that is blank from his mind. It was likely nonsense and because of that he doesn't care. All he knows is that the body drops and he just stand there.

He forgets.

There's this blessed closure, in the middle of bullets and the chaos that explosions cause, and he no longer has to worry about his back being stabbed. He gets it then, he understand why they say to forget. He doesn't even care about the kid, about anything, because he's not tied down to the attachment that held him at the camp for six months of hell.

The bullet rips into his shoulder and if it didn't hurt so much, he'd be cursing himself that he had let himself go like that. His knees don't even shake and he just drops into the dirt. Just drops and for a moment, he wishes that he had a mate to protect him from that, from the bullet that's soon to come in a much more vital spot.

Bullets fly, they make Fyers retreat and a hand pulls him up.

Oliver.

This time, he doesn't even attempt to push down the feeling of attachment, of trust that blooms as he is dragged away from the chaotic campsite. Still, he can't stop the worry that spreads. The kid is hardly shaking and he wonders if he's just seeing a ghost, just like the mercenary with the mask he killed.

He wonders as the kid disarms a guard, just like he showed him once but didn't even teach him. He can't help but be proud, because they aren't killed as they go back to the plane. He's accomplished that much, even if he's missed his chance to escape the well named purgatory. The kid isn't dead by his hands and even then, he's not sure he's attached.

Trying not to show the pain isn't that hard with the kid looking at the blood stained sleeve every five seconds, so concerned. Frankly, he's more concerned about who's going to dig out the bullet than the kid's feelings. He can't do it, the metal is in there too deep and the angle is to the point where he can barely get a knife over there to dig it out, never mind actually seeing what he's doing.

Five years ago, this wouldn't of been a problem because the hands helping him take off his jacket to get a better look would be experienced. This would of been a simple thing, the hands on his shoulder wouldn't be shaking, the eyes trying to make contact with him wouldn't hold fear. Yet, here he is and the strangest thing? There's not a hint of fear in him about what comes next.

It's not that hard to dig out a bullet, not even if the hands are used to rolling blunts more than they are than being curved around the handle of a blade. There is no suppressing the vocal pain, even if he tries because he can see how the kid wants to run and hide. The hand on his elbow is firm and he's glad because breaking one of the kid's rib is not in his plans today. After it's done, he tells the kid good job in the form of his usual dry snark and even then he's not attached.

Can't be. That would leave him open to backstabbing, that would start the stupid process he was warned against his first day of training. Don't they tell him, get attached because you're going to have to let go of those around you in one way or another. Either they, or you, are going to die or go off the map and it's best to have friends, to survive, but have them be disposable. Be able to throw them to the lions if need be, because there's always a chance that when you're surrounded by bad guys that one will make you choose between yourself and the one beside you.

He understands that, gets why there's two conditions to the roulette game of attachment they all have to play. Thing is, as he bandages his own wound, he knows he won't throw the kid - Oliver - to the bad guys if they get caught. Hell, he'd probably tell the kid to run and leave him.

And there, where he sees the kid brighten just because he's alive and talking, he knows that there's things they haven't talked about. Oliver is on this island for a reason and that isn't something that hasn't been touched on with a ten foot pole. He's okay with that, because the only thing he knows for sure is that he's not alone anymore. They'll get there.

He lets Oliver fix dinner, watching as the dried things that barely pass for food in terms of taste are made without complaint. They don't talk about what happened, about how he froze after taking out Billy or how Oliver saved him. There's time for that tomorrow, for complaining and annoying to come back to the surface.

He's on a crash course he knows, but just last time, he's stupid enough to think it won't kill him too soon. Not yet.

X

It hits him as he watches Shado trying to teach the kid something that he has to admit will work better with his body type that a blade. Days and days of patience and part of him is wondering why she hasn't given up yet. There's another reason than just wanting to make him better and it puts him on edge.

They're close and one day, he decides he doesn't want her here, with them.

It's nice, a change of pace and she brings more of what he needs to keep Oliver alive than the kid brings himself. Experience on fighting and basic knowledge, it's nice not having to carry everything on his own. To have another babysitter.

Yet, he wants her gone because she poses a threat that only he seems to see. The kid is getting too close to her, too attached and there's only one way it can go from here.

Personally, he's come to terms with the fact that he won't be able to throw the kid into the lions pit. For whatever reason, which still escapes him, he knows that if anyone is getting off the island, it's Oliver. And if he doesn't, if his Australian self doesn't get off the god forsaken hole of hell, it's because he died making sure the kid got back home.

The kid isn't dying, he's decided that.

Thing is, what keeps his eyes wary on her, is that he knows that Oliver would do the same for her. He also knows that things don't go to plan and it's just as likely that she will die before either of them do. It's possible they're going to have to let her go and he's not okay with it, but he's accepted it.

He wants her gone, because he doesn't think Oliver will let her go.

Oliver won't forget.

X

He's right in the end, of course he is. He's been wrong before and why it's decided now for him to be correct is enough to make him just give up. Just stand there, watching as round after round of ammunition is unloaded into the soil, the wrecked landscape.

He knew the target of the ship's wrath even before he held up the binoculars and yet he still names the wrecked metal of a plane aloud, because he knows that if he doesn't, Oliver will take off. The kid does anyway, even after he's tried to tell him to let go because he knows where that path leads and he doesn't want anyone to go there.

The kid races down the mountain, he chases.

Of course he does and he doesn't even consider not doing it, because he's not ready to be alone, to forget. Not yet, the little shit isn't allowed to die. There's three things he knows for certain as they cut through the forest; either Shado is dead, alive (and cleared out of the area), and they are heading straight for a goddamn field that is being bombarded with shells capable of killing them in one, random shot.

He calls after the kid, pleads with him, and follows him into the minefield of cannon fire because there's no reason not to. He may be a broken, hardened weapon of a man, but Oliver isn't, not yet. And if it means preventing serious injury, making sure he doesn't see the remains of Shado, then it's what will be done. Oliver is human, he's still alive when surrounded by demons and he'll be damned if the kid falls down the same hole.

He's attached damn it.

Cursing, he runs faster, wishing the kid didn't have a few inches on him.

X

A sucking chest wound is nature's way of telling you you've been ambushed. If that's true, then he must be in hell, pulled down by the devil himself. It feels like he's being gutted and the presence of ground against his knees tell him that he's been forced to stop moving.

Something's burning.

He's not even aware that it's him until he recounts what happens, that he was the one burning. That he was screaming, surrounded by mortar shells all around him. All he knows is that through someone's fingers, his own, that he can see the kid staring at him. Blue eyes roll back, past long hair, and then all there is pain.

He should be moving forward, pulling the limp body only inches from him away from the death trap all around them. But he can't even see anymore, the vision blurring and then, the kid's gone.

It's all gone dark.

(Before unconsciousness washes over him, he wonders if he'll be forgotten, if they'll forget him.)


End file.
